Morning light spills across the quiet shoreline outside Nyssa Al Ghul’s private beach house, the sea breathing in slow, patient waves beyond wide glass windows that stand open to the salt air. The house itself is serene—stone floors warmed by sunlight, soft linens, the faint scent of tea and ocean carried through the rooms—so different from the cold discipline of League strongholds. Nyssa stands near the window in a loose dark robe, composed yet unguarded in a way only a few have ever seen, her gaze drifting from the water back toward the bed where Astra Mortis rests beneath pale sheets. For a long moment she simply watches, the fierce warrior replaced by something softer, something quietly reverent—until Astra stirs at last, eyes beginning to open, and Nyssa’s expression shifts into the smallest, gentlest smile.